Owen caught a lone man's eye as he drove through the throng, long, shaggy dark hair hanging over the man's spooky blue eyes. He wore torn blue jeans and a stained white T-shirt, holding a JOHN 3:16 sign up lazily at his side, unmoving.
"What the hell…?" Owen muttered, twisting to look back as the crowd swelled in, packing tight around his small car. He shot a glance in the rearview, but the strange man and his out-of-place sign were long gone.
Police held the protesters back from the site itself, where Suburbans and Volvos and Avery's BMW were parked alongside dozers and trailers. Owen swung his feet out the driver door and tugged on his steel-toes before trudging out to meet Avery in the middle of what locals called Jackson's Field.
She stood with five guys in hard hats and steel-toes going over the technical drawings, swinging a long arm out to indicate to the men where the future towers would stand. In a group of men, Avery held her own; it didn't hurt that she towered over most of them, but even if she hadn't, her knowledge and experience had carried her far. There was never a time when Owen wasn't glad to have her as a partner. He doubted Avery could say the same of him.
The group broke up their huddle and went about their various duties. Avery spotted Owen as he approached, and shook her head. "Lot more protesters today," she said. "I thought the freaks only came out at night?"
"Did you see the guy with the John 3:16 sign? What's that about?"
She glanced over his shoulder. "Must've thought he'd found himself a backwoods wrestling match," Avery said, and Owen chuckled. "You look like you're in a brighter mood today. Good to see it."
"Feeling much better, actually. Thanks."
Avery eyeballed him a few more seconds before squinting off at the marshy field. "You ever see one of these green tree frogs they're chanting about?" It didn't seem to Owen it was what she'd wanted to say. He assumed she wanted to press him about how he was doing, and couldn't bring herself to. They didn't have that kind of relationship. He'd never had that kind of relationship with anyone but Lori. Even the few women he'd dated had accused him of being closed-off—Wasn't that what Gerald called me?—a state of being that had eventually, inevitably, ended the relationships. Only Lori had known his true self. Even so, he'd shut her out near the end, too. He'd told himself they were growing apart, as siblings often do, but the truth was he'd been pushing her away.
"They're gray tree frogs, I think," he said. He remembered catching one when he was little, younger than he could ever recall being, and it had peed in his hand. Whether it had done it out of self-defense or fear, he'd never known. Either way, he'd had no special feelings for the animal. "The fact that there's maybe one single tree in this whole goddamn field doesn't make me believe we'll being doing any harm to their habitat, though."
Avery chuckled. "No, I wouldn't think so."
"When's the Premier supposed to be showing up?" The Ontario Premier had been scheduled to break ground today, a fact Avery had reminded Owen of when he'd called to say he'd be a bit late. Owen hadn't forgotten; the idea of the smiling dignitary stomping on a brand-new shovel while the press snapped photos and shot footage filled him with mild dread.
Breaking ground reminded him of the clean little four-by-ten burial plot in St. John's Norway where Lori's body quietly decomposed, and he was afraid his mask of composure might slip in front of the cameras. How would that look for the little company they'd built, he and Avery, with one of its lead architects looking like his sister had just died, on the front page of every paper?
Avery glanced at her watch. "Little after twelve," she said. "It's almost eleven now."
"Good, good," Owen said. There was a skirmish in the crowd, but the police quickly broke it up. A man and a woman shouting at each other. The woman belonged to the workers' side, the man was a NIMBY. The cop held them back from each other, then made them shake hands and mutter apologies. A uniquely Canadian brawl, Owen thought. It wasn't very funny, but he felt it deserved a grin.
The bustle cleared, opening the way for the man with the spooky eyes and his JOHN 3:16 placard, which he'd raised to shoulder-height. He stood immobile, his gaze fixed on Owen. Owen felt his heart quicken as anger flooded his veins. He's provoking me, he thought, remembering the chapter and verse from Lori's funeral. Don't let it get to you.
"What's the matter?" Avery said.
"Nothing."
But the man turned the sign, his expression unchanging, the board still resting on his shoulder. The backside was painted in red, curdled like streaks of blood:
LORI'S WITH US
NOW, OWEN
Without a thought, without even blinking, Owen rushed out into the muddy parking lot, ignoring Avery's cries for him to stop. Just beyond the cars, he fell to his knees in muck, getting a reaction from the crowd, laughter and shock. He pushed himself up, muddying his hands, and stormed toward the man with the sign.
"Who are you?" he demanded. "How do you know who I am?" The man said nothing, only pushed his icy blue stare further into Owen's skull, a mesmerist's trick. Childish rage spilled over, and Owen shoved the man in the center of his chest, leaving a muddy palm print against the man's dingy white T-shirt.
"Owen!" Avery sounded both terrified and angry. She grabbed him by the shoulder and drew him away from the man. "Are you nuts? What the hell are you doing?" She whispered this, harshly, and threw a smile over Owen's shoulder at the man with the sign. "I'm terribly sorry, sir. He's had a bad week."
"Bad week?" Owen shouted, incredulous. "Avery, this fucking guy—"
But as he struggled to remove her hand he took in the sign's message: STOP GREEN FASCISM. No John 3:16, and zero mention of his or Lori's names. Owen's muscles slackened at the realization: the hallucinations were still happening. Twice now; three times, counting the lucid dream. Avery was still pulling him away from the man with the sign, and he fell into her arms. She gave him a one-armed hug, patting him cursorily on the back.
"Is everything okay here, ma'am?" A young cop had sashayed over, looking apprehensive to dive into the fray.
"Don't ma'am me, Sonny Jim," she snapped, a classic Averyism. "And yes, we're fine. It's a misunderstanding, that's all."
The troubled officer turned to the spooky-eyed man for confirmation.
"I'm really sorry," Owen said, and he meant it. "I thought you were… someone else."
"No harm no foul," the man said.
"I'll pay for the dry-cleaning, if you—"
"I got six more shirts like this at home, fella. Like I said, water under the bridge."
These last words slugged Owen in the chest, but he wouldn't allow the feeling to express itself on his face. Avery, meanwhile, stared the cop down until he reluctantly moved away. Then she turned back to Owen and said, "Go home, Owen." She spoke directly into his ear. "Take some time off. You need it."
"I don't," he said, his voice nearing a whine. "I need to work."
"Work doesn't need you. I don't need you. The lion's share is done, you know that. It's all PR bullshit now, nitpicky little detail-work you're no good at anyway. You're a big-picture guy. Take a week off." It was a demand, not a request, and though she couldn't exactly give him orders, she could easily make things difficult for him at the office. "Shit, take two. Let yourself grieve."
But Owen was looking past her at the rise of green before the land gave way to swamp, where his sister stood, her damp hair and white gown caught in the same wind that rocked him.
"I don't want to grieve," he said, watching Lori mouth her voiceless plea, wondering why she couldn't just leave him alone.
"Nobody does, Owen," she said. He saw sympathy in Avery's eyes, revealing an emotional side she'd kept hidden from him in the eleven years they'd been partners. "If people did, they'd call it something else."
When he looked again, his sister was gone.
2
The funeral bill arrived that day. He'd known his mother couldn't afford it on her fixed income, so he'd asked that they send it to him. He hadn't been expecting it so
soon, though, with the wound still fresh, and after his breakdown earlier in the day, it hit him hard. It was a business, he supposed, like any other, and businesses needed to be paid. But they could have waited a few weeks, at least, in his opinion. Out of compassion.
"Something wrong?"
Owen turned at the vaguely familiar voice. The girl from the condo next door stood behind him, the key to her mailbox held between slender fingers, nails painted black, chipped and bitten. Her face was as white as the wall behind her. She might have blended in entirely, like a ghost, if not for her dark clothes.
He'd seen the young woman around the building before, in the elevators, in the underground lot. Seen her entering the condo next to his, and said nothing, had only given her a brief smile. After the first missed opportunity, it felt awkward to speak up on subsequent meetings in the hall. He knew her last name was Huang, because they'd gotten their mail mixed up once, her coupon for some hair product left in his mailbox, his receipt for some charitable donation in hers.
"Nothing's wrong," he said, shrugging up his shoulders a little too high. He realized he must have been standing in the mail room for some time, staring at the bill in his hand, a handful of flyers in the other.
"Oh. You just seem depressed is all," she said.
His breath caught. He felt as if he were drowning, water in his lungs choking out his breath—Is that what this is? Depression?
Funny how it was so obvious, that a woman he'd only just met had read it on his face, in a single phrase, a single gesture, but he'd never once considered it himself. Did Avery notice before today? Owen wondered. Have clients? In that moment of self-reflection, he realized his head had been drooped, his chin almost touching his chest, his mouth downturned on one side like a man with Bell's palsy, but in a way that seemed to feel natural. He straightened immediately, forcing his mouth into a tight smile. Christ, how long had it been like that? Hours? Days? Weeks?
She eyed the envelope in his hand with the funeral home's letterhead, and the corners of her own lips turned down. "Oh," she said, suddenly flustered. "I'm so sorry, I didn't mean—"
"No, it's—I'm—"
"I didn't mean to pry," she said. "I just… You know we live right beside each other and I don't think we've ever said a word. Our bathroom walls touch—that's kind of intimate, I think, maybe I'm just weird—and I don't even know your name. That's a bit odd, isn't it?"
"I guess it is a little strange," Owen admitted, as much for the fact that neighbors of three years didn't know each other's first names as for her belief that their toilet tanks being separated by a foot-thick wall of concrete was a form of intimacy. He shifted the mail to his left hand, shook hers with his right. Her hand was fragile, anemically cold. "I'm Owen."
"Sophie. I'm sorry for your loss." She frowned. "Wow, that really does sound meaningless from a stranger, doesn't it? 'Sorry for your loss.' As if I know anything about you." She glanced at his chest, causing Owen to wonder if she was trying to get a look at his heart. "Your pain," she added, and he supposed she must have been.
He nodded, forcing a smile. "It's fine. Thank you."
She smiled wanly back, small features set in a pale face surrounded by single-shade brown hair chopped into bangs. He hadn't really noticed her before, hadn't clued in to the fact that a not-unattractive woman lived next door to him.
When's the last time you thought about anyone sexually? he asked himself, and he knew he must have been depressed for a very long time when he realized he couldn't answer the question.
The silence drew out. Finally Sophie nodded, brushed her bangs aside. She opened her mailbox, grabbed the mail from inside, and locked it again. "Well," she said, "it was nice to meet you, Owen."
"Yeah, you too…" He'd lost her name already.
"Sophie," she reminded him with a patient smile. "If you need anything, to talk or whatever, my door's always open. I mean, of course, it's locked. In this neighborhood, are you kidding me? Just… you know, knock." With a shrug, she added, "I know what it's like to lose someone."
"Okay," he said, deciding at worst she'd lost a childhood pet, a tabby with fur the same single-shade brown as her hair, dead of feline diabetes. The last thing he needed was some stranger who knew nothing of real loss trying to yank him out of this—and he called it what it was—depression. Hope only exists to make the disappointments deeper. Hadn't his mother told him that often enough? He forced another smile. "Thanks again."
She stood there waiting for more. When he offered nothing, she nodded again and headed for the elevators.
Owen dumped the flyers in the recycling, considered tossing the bill from the funeral home in with it, and then took it with him. Sophie would be waiting for the elevator still; they were always slow. He hung back behind the corner of the wall, listening for the ding. Once the doors slid shut with Sophie nestled inside, he stepped back out into the empty foyer.
3
Owen sat on the leather sofa in his simple suite, off-white and black and deep, rich brown like Sophie Huang's hair. He was thinking about the man with the John 3:16 sign, which had turned out to be something entirely different, and wondering why his mind had made such a bizarre connection. LORI'S WITH US NOW, OWEN.
"Us," he muttered. "Is that what she was trying to tell me?" But of course, she wasn't trying to tell him anything; it was his own subconscious speaking to him through her, through the protest sign. The television, on mute, showed the reenactment of a murder in hazy colors. The killer looped a strand of wire around the throat of this week's female victim, and pulled...
Clearly, he still had doubts about her death. When he'd finally gotten through to the officer in charge, the officer had seemed certain Lori's drowning had been accidental. There was little Owen could do but speculate.
According to the police, Lori had rented a cottage on Chapel Lake with the purpose of going diving, but the whole thing had seemed entirely unlike her. Lori was more of a Cayman Islands diver, parti-colored fish and pink coral reefs and underwater caverns, with long sandy beaches to dry out and tan on. Owen couldn't imagine what she possibly would have been hoping to find, diving in cottage country where, aside from shape and size, all the lakes were virtually identical.
I have to know. Everything. All of it. Why she went and how it happened. I have to know.
Owen opened his laptop and looked up the lake. Peterborough Township's website said Chapel Lake was man-made, created in October of 1979 as a reservoir for a hydroelectric dam. He clicked the link to the town's website, and it came up a dead end: WEB PAGE NOT AVAILABLE. Even the cached site was blank. He scrolled through the other links. None of them were for Chapel Lake, either the town or the lake itself. According to one site he was able to find, the original town had been named Peace Falls, after the white settlers' name for the nearby Mushkoweban Falls. The present town of Chapel Lake lay on land meant for expansion of its neighboring village, Dunsmuir—a familiar name, Owen thought. They'd incorporated Dunsmuir into the new town of Chapel Lake before the dam was built and the old town submerged.
His search finally hit pay dirt in images: photo after photo of underwater wreckage filled the screen, green-gray neighborhoods of ruined buildings, swarming with freshwater fish. In one photo, an old wooden boat rotted on the caved-in roof of a shack, its hull encrusted with zebra-striped barnacles. Another showed a rusted swing set, chains hanging loose and furry with green and brown algae, the seats themselves missing, like some makeshift torture device.
Several photos showed why it had been named Chapel Lake: a church steeple standing like an obelisk in the middle of the water—an eerie sight, despite the sun-shiny setting. He might have thought it was a Photoshop job if photos hadn't been taken at so many different angles and times of day. In some, there were boats and water-skiers and Jet Skis shooting by in the background. In others, the water was low enough to see the church's bell tower. Several more were shot from underwater, some at a wide angle, distorting the church's features, shot low to capture
bright ripples where the cross broke through the surface.
Owen closed the laptop, satisfied with what he'd found. But his curiosity lingered. He could see how Lori might have been interested enough to check out the lake for herself, as an experienced diver. She'd done wreck salvage before. She'd even worked as an underwater welder for a few months to make money for her next trip, much to the displeasure of Owen and their mother, who feared her death on a daily basis. This was salvage on a larger scale, though he supposed if the town had been sunk in 1979, there would be very little left of worth under Chapel Lake. Since she'd likely seen the same photos he'd just looked at and found the same scant information, she'd likely have come to the same conclusion herself.
There's gotta be more to it than that, he reasoned. Lori's a smart girl. She wouldn't have wasted her time up there, unless she knew something I don't.
Without access to what she'd been thinking in the last weeks and days of her life, without a computer or a diary to work with, he supposed he'd never know. Lori hadn't kept an apartment the past few years, drifting from sublet to sublet, often sleeping on a friend's couch in between expeditions, or, as a last resort, Mom's house. Her computer, if she'd even owned one, and her diary, if she'd kept one, would likely be in the box at the house, gathering dust on her old bed.
He considered calling his mother and asking her to look, but when he'd brought up the idea of going through it himself, she'd been mortified, yet another nonstarter conversation in the Saddler house.
What then?
His thoughts traveled down to the parking garage and his hybrid (a car he'd bought after Lori's constant badgering that his previous one was damaging the environment), to where his brand-new diving equipment lay in the cool semi-darkness.
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